Everyone in my family is 3 years old.

We return from our anniversary dinner to find my parents at the kitchen table, discussing something boring.

"Well, how was it?" my mother asks, smiling broadly.

"Oh great," I reply. "The food was amazing!"

Both parents stare at me with giant grins on their faces.

"So it was good?" my father says.

"Nothing was . . . uncomfortable about the evening? Nothing . . . awkward?" my mother chimes in.

"Ummm, no." My parents are totally losing it.

"Why don't you take off your coat?" my father suggests.

I do, and both of them start giggling. I twist around to find a clothespin attached to the back of my sweater.

My mother is about to pee herself. "I put that on you before you left!" she cackles.

"HONEY," I say pointedly to the DNB. "Remember how it's us against the world? You're supposed to watch for these things!" Then I pause, remembering. I let the host take my coat as we entered the restaurant. "So everyone in that very fancy dining establishment saw it. Probably they were all making fun of me."

"Yes," my father replies solemnly. "We've been getting calls . . ."

Wherein things go from bad to worse.

We play a family game!

We are visiting my family in Virginia, and the assembled crowd includes my parents, all 4 of my siblings, two spouses, an exchange student who's been living with my family for three years, and two of the three Buds.

The game, announces one of my sisters, plays like written Telephone. Each person gets a stack of paper. On the top sheet, we are to write a saying or a phrase. Then we each pass our stack to the left, and the next person interprets the phrase in a drawing. Another pass, and the third person must - looking only at the drawing - write what they think the original phrase was. And so on, until each stack has passed completely around the group.

Oh yes, hilarity ensues.

My brother selects as his phrase, "I have a dream..."

This gets passed to my father, who draws what appears to be someone lying in bed either dreaming or smoking.  Just say no, kids.

Next, my sister interprets this as the following:

We'll ignore the fact that a delightful fluffy cloud of dream-smoke does not a nightmare make. She passes the stack to me, upon which the whole thing heads downhill.

In my zeal to make sure the "boy" part of the phrase is understood, I draw an anatomically correct stick figure. I also clarify the bad dream portion by including another stick figure being shot. Seemed straight forward enough to me.

APPARENTLY NOT because the DNB passes this bad boy on to my mother. "MORNING WOOD?" I shriek when we review the stack later.  Leave it to us to ruin a perfectly nice family game.

"Well, it definitely looks like the person is dreaming about watching a porn shoot," he defends himself. "Imagine how I felt having to pass that phrase on to your mom!"

Fortunately, my mother is sweet and innocent, and interprets this in the nicest, mommish way possible: morning, with a neat pile of logs.

This she hands to my other sister, who does her best.  Ah yes, the old "the rooster crows in the morning at the 3 logs" saying.  It's a classic. 

My brother-in-law interprets this beautifully, with a careful depiction of a rooster crowing at precisely three logs.

Our exchange student is the last to receive the stack. Maybe in Korea chickens comment instead of cluck?  Even Asian animals are smart!

 

Marriage is a Solemn Institution

It's a time-honored tradition in my family, on my father's side, to put clothespins on unsuspecting individuals. Nowhere has this childish/Super Fun past time been embraced as warmly as at my sister's recent wedding. My sister's classy and elegant wedding. At a country club with a plated dinner.

My uncle sidles up to me. He displays a handful of plastic clothespins like a guy with watches in his coat. "I bought 200 of these last night," he says in a low voice, handing me a few.

My eyes widen in delight. He walks away, a red clothespin already clinging to the back of his shirt.

We decide that the ultimate coup is to pin one on my sister, the beautiful bride. That accomplished, many times over, we move on to more insidious targets. My father manages to clip one to the long braid of one of our servers. Our entire table giggles into our hands. A family friend stops to chat, his back to my brother's seat. By the time he walks away, the back edge of his jacket is lined with a patriotic assortment of red, white, and blue clothespins. The DNB tags the photographer.

Our game is interrupted by a young man, a friend of the groom. He kneels by my father's chair. "Sir," he begins. "I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful event." Graciously, my father shakes his hand and the young man leaves. A clothespin has made it onto the bottom hem of my father's pants.

My father, an expert in military intelligence, carefully bides his time. A game of limbo begins, and my father works his way toward the edge of the gathered spectators. Just as the young man begins to scoot his way under the limbo marker, my father swoops in. Surreptitiously clipping the clothespin to the back of the limboing young man's shirt, he walks away in triumph.

Someone has baby fever, and it's not me.

Me: I'm not feeling well this morning. I think my allergies are acting up.

Dad: Are you pregnant?

Me: No, I have allergies. Or a cold.

Dad: Or you're pregnant.

Me: Yes. The oft-overlooked signs of pregnancy - runny nose, itchy eyes, and a sore throat.

Words of Wisdom, from Us.

We discuss rules for our future (unconceived) children!

"I don't really mind if Kirby or Madeline wants a tattoo or piercing," I say, eyeing my own. I think briefly about going the hypocrite route, but kids as smart as mine will see right through that shiznit.

"I don't either," the DNB agrees. "As long as they aren't doing something that will permanently alter their future in a negative way, I think I'll be pretty laid back."

"I guess my Rules to Live By for them will pretty much be, 'Make good choices, don't be a Toolbag Doucherocket,'" I announce solemnly.

"Yes," the DNB says. "Also 'Make good choices, don't be a Slutty Hobag Whore.'"

"Sounds straight forward enough to me."

His Special Birthday Dinner will be Coal

"I finished painting our new birthday plate!" I announce happily to the DNB.

I've gone to a pottery painting shop with my Book Club. I decided to paint something useful, because God knows I'm my father's daughter and can only stand so many "trinkets." Although, unlike my father, I don't define a trinket as "anything that costs money." The DNB's family has a wonderful tradition - on your birthday, you get to eat a birthday dinner of your choice off of a shiny red plate that says "You Are Special." So to continue the tradition, and make it our own, I made a plate especially for us.

"You made a birthday plate? Is it red?" the DNB asks.

"No," I reply. "It's green and blue."

"So it's not red?" He seems confused.

"No."

"But it's a birthday plate?"

"I'll tell you what," I say patiently. "When it's your birthday, you can eat off the red plate. When it's mine, I'll eat off of the special new plate, handmade with love and tenderness for our own small but precious family."

"Okay," he says cheerfully.

Sisters

My sister was here!

She came for a visit, spontaneously, which I love about her. Two days before she arrived she told me she might be able to come, and then the night before she called to confirm. We're a lot the same, and a lot different. The same goofy sense of humor and interest in art and music. But I'm a Type A analytic and feel at peace after I organize. She's a procrastinating free spirit who shudders at the thought of a grocery list. I love how families can be such an odd mix of personalities. We learn from each other.

We told our mother we were getting matching body piercings. Antagonizing our conservative mom, that's another thing we have in common.

It's getting harder and harder to see family these days, which makes me sad. We're all off in our own directions, getting started with our own lives. We're growing up.

Thanks, Hot Lava, for making the trek out here. You're poised so beautifully to take on the world. I'm so proud of you.

It's raining, which is no surprise

I travel to Florida!

I'm here to spend some time with my mom, who is in town for a facepainting conference. My big plan was to spend some quality poolside time writing and reading while she's in her workshops.

Except.

It appears I can't travel without rain. Once, we were driving from Arizona to Indiana. We left early and had to drive straight through to avoid an ice storm that was making its way across the midwest. It rained for the entire drive. 30 endless hours of rain. It was all kinds of special, and ever since then we've not taken a trip that didn't involve heavy precipitation.

A double negative for my double negative attitude. It remains to be seen whether being my mother's face model for her dragon painting class will make matters better or worse.

If she behaves, she MAY get her meds

We discuss the DNB's aged mother!

"If she thinks she's getting Cosmos in the nursing home, she's got another thing coming," I tell the DNB.

"Oh HELL no," he replies. "We're cutting her off."

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

After a walk through Penzey's Spices, during which Sister #2 was fascinated by the possibilities, Sister #1 voiced my sentiments exactly: "I have no idea what these spices are, how to pronounce their names, or how to use them."

On Body Hair

I have always been the vain one in the family. I'm admitting right here and right now that I have an entire bedroom especially for my shoes, makeup, and clothes, and I call it my Closet Room, and yes I have a problem. But today, my sister topped every limited edition Chanel earrings fantasy I've ever had.

"I got laser hair removal," she announced, as a casual endnote to our conversation.

"What?" I screech. I have been wanting laser hair removal for roughly 5 years, give or take the WHOLE OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.

"Mom took me," my sister continues, as if I can handle all of this information at once.

"Mom?" I screech again. My mother? Who believes in growing old naturally? Who probably still uses disposable razors? Who didn't use a massage gift certificate I bought her until the week before it expired? And only because I reminded her it was about to?

"It all started when this OB-GYN had a patient who was so hairy he couldn't stop feeling bad for her. So his wife decided to do something to help, and started doing laser hair removal in town," she goes on to say.

I was starting to get jealous. Really jealous, like Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor jealous. A number of years ago, I did a Laser Hair Removal Cost Efficiency Calculation. Without even accounting for inflation or the value of my time, I determined that razor blades and shaving gel alone would cost more than laser hair removal for both legs and my bikini line. AND, I only calculated through age 60 because God knows whether shaving will still be worth it after Madeline and Kirby send me to the nursing home.

And then I stopped to think, and realized that there are more important things in life than laser hair removal. Like WHETHER MY DOCTOR THINKS I'M SO HAIRY THAT HE TALKS ABOUT IT WITH HIS WIFE, WHO DECIDES TO BECOME A LICENSED ESTHETICIAN SO SHE CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

This One has a Future in Litigation

Once when the brother I call George was young enough to still be in a high chair, I was babysitting he and my sisters.

At dinner, George actually ate every bit of his meal and asked for more. My youngest sister obliged, and emptied her plate onto his. He ate a few bites, and then began pushing it around his plate, tossing pieces of it onto the floor, and smashing it onto the tray of his high chair.

"George," I said sternly. "Don't play with your food."

"I'm not," he replied simply. "I'm playing with her food."

Happy Halloween

And a very happy birthday to my sister!

Because of her untimely entrance, my Geisha costume sucked in 1988.

There May Also Be Some Silver Missing

My brother colored on the wall!

My father was furious, and immediately sent him to his room, despite George's repeated denials that he was at fault.

A little while later, a tiny voice called down from George's room. "Dad? I think I know who colored on the wall!"

My father, pleased that George was finally ready to tell the truth, went upstairs to receive his confession.

"Yes?" my father said. "Who colored on the wall?"

"Well," my brother replied hopefully, "I think maybe it was a burglar."

Earthlink Sucks.

It's this reporter's opinion, of course. But still, Earthlink sucks.

In an effort to bring my mother into the 20th century (mid-1990's, to be precise), I set up a Gmail account for her to use as she starts up her own small business. She's been on AOL for the last million years, and I wanted to wean her away. AOL also sucks, but in different ways. As part of the Outlook setup process, which she's never used and is a little frightened of, we discover The Devil That Is Earthlink. She doesn't use Earthlink, but it came with her DSL. When we try to get rid of it, I learn that the 20th century might be a bit ambitious.

First of all, The Devil That Is Earthlink is nearly impossible to remove from your computer once you've installed it. If you try to add/remove it, a portion of the software stays buried in your system and gets Windows Installer to try to reinstall it every, oh, 10-15 seconds. Complete with pop-up windows. I go so far as to tremulously walk her through a registry edit (makes me nervous just saying the words) trying to wipe it.

Despite the title of the post, this isn't really about The Devil That Is Earthlink, about which you have now been warned. It's about my mother.

"Tell me what's happening on your screen now," I direct.

"Nothing - I think it's frozen."

"Try hitting ctrl-alt-delete," I tell her.

"Still nothing. Do I have to hit them all at the same time?" she responds.

Okaaaaay. "Let's just turn the thing off. Press and hold the power button."

"Alright, I did. The computer's still making sounds though," she tells me.

"Hmm, it shouldn't be. Did the screen go black?" I ask.

"Yes, the screen is black."

"You pressed power on the screen, didn't you?" I say wearily.

"Oh, oops. Which one is the power button for the computer?" She finally presses and holds the correct button. "Oh no," she mutters, making her signature mom-tsst sounds of worry.

"What, what's going on?" I ask, concerned.

"Well, now nothing's happening!" she says, tsst-ing.

"Because you just TURNED THE COMPUTER OFF!" I holler.

I suspend my disbelief. "Mom, you are why the Indian tech support people always start by asking if the computer is plugged in."

The Day I Learned to Give

When I was five or six, I wanted a Barbie more than anything. More than ice cream for dessert, or sugary cereal for breakfast, or World Peace.

My mom, as all good conservative mothers should, determined that Barbies create unrealistic images of what a female should look and act like (check out those knockers). No unmarried skeevtastic dolls for me! Fortunately, Mattel came out with the Heart Family. It was Barbie, only as a mother! She looked the same, but now she had finally married Ken and had a couple of kids. Good, wholesome Barbie.

So I set my sights on obtaining the Heart Family. Because there were four of them, they cost more than Malibu-Airline-Zookeeper Barbie. I saved my pennies, doing extra chores to earn enough.

And then Christmas approached. My elementary school held a Winter Wonderland! The cafeteria was covered in fake snow, and table upon table contained precious Christmas treasures we could buy for our friends and loved ones. I spent all of my hard-earned money buying mugs and candles and snow globes for my family.

It hit me later that I didn't have anything left in my Heart Family Fund. But no matter, there were Christmas presents to wrap, and I had bought them all myself. With my money.

Three days later, a package arrived. Wrapped in brown paper, with scrawling anonymous handwriting, it was addressed to me. I tore it open. Inside was the Heart Family.

If my mother knows who sent it, she has never admitted it to me. Instead, it remains a kind of Christmas miracle. A real-life give and it shall be given unto you.

On Immersion

"Grow where you're planted," my mother taught me.

We lived in some odd places, but she wanted us kids to experience different cultures and immerse ourselves in our new communities. I guess she believed this could best be accomplished through unbridled participation. It didn't matter that we were no good at the activities or that we weren't interested in the events. Oh yes, child, sign us up.

Out most notable venture into planting ourselves came when we lived in the Netherlands. We lived in a converted vintage barn in a very small village in the Dutch countryside. It was a beautiful rural setting. My mother decided we would join the local children's choir.

None of us could sing. Really.

The Eckelrade Children's Choir seemed to be comprised of every child in the village. Boys and girls, they flocked en mass each Tuesday night to the main community building in town. During the day, it housed the village preschool. By night, it was a tavern. Even on nights when we had rehearsal in the center of the large room, weathered farmers would sit at the bar, talking as we sang.

To this day, I have no idea what qualified the director for his position. It seemed we sang slightly out of tune no matter how many times we repeated the lines of the songs. Which were nearly all in English, ironically. So if my mother was hoping we'd pick up some more of the native tongue, well, the only Dutch we learned were the swear words the director would shout at us. He was a hot-headed fellow with a baton he would frequently use to rap the heads of the first row of children. I was tall, and stood in the back row, well out of arm's reach.

We were accompanied on an electric organ by one of two older boys. Richard was tall and gangly, with dark hair and a pale face. He owned his own DJing business called "Disco Ricardo," which was not surprisingly hired for every village social gathering. He stood behind his gaudy set-up, miniature disco ball reflecting light off of his glasses, flipping CD cases open and adjusting audio levels importantly. My sisters and I called him "Disco Retardo." Matisse, on the other hand, was lovely, dashing and cute. He worked the nation's orange and zipper fashion trend like it was his job. All of us older girls had crushes on him, and occasionally he would flirt with us before donning his helmet and riding his moped off into the night.

We sang songs like "Heal the World" and "Blowin' in the Wind," heavy soulful lyrics for a group of preteens. Sometimes the director would ask me how to pronounce a word or two.

Who many rwoads must a man wok down, we would sing, and a man at the bar would raise his glass.

A Mother's Work is Never Done

I call my sister.

"Oh!" she exclaims towards the end of our conversation. "I have a question for you." She's been visiting her boyfriend and wants to cook dinner for he and his roommate. "They have frozen, boneless chicken breasts. What can I make with that?"

"Ummm," I say, thinking. "The DNB usually grills chicken for us."

"The boys don't have a grill, though," she points out.

"Okay, you could do that thing where you dip them in bread crumbs and bake them," I suggest.

"Well, I was thinking about, what is it called? broiling them?"

"Isn't broiling cooking fast at the top of the oven, though?" It's clearly the blind leading the blind. She has an excuse, though, because having been an R.A. at her college, she hasn't lived on her own yet.

We both pause.

"You know I don't cook, right?" I ask her.

"Yeah," she replies.

We sit in silence again.

"Maybe you should call Mom."

Growing up Girly

When I was younger, my sisters and I played library.

I'll just let that sink in.

It was a house full of girls, and there's just no way around it. We had a chest full of dress-up clothes, and a stack of index cards we taped to the back of our books. The stamping--a la "The Music Man" Madame Librarian--ah, the stamping. We stamped with a vigor seldom seen. Except we didn't have a date stamp for the "due by" column, so we pretended.

My play name was always Samantha or Veronica. Oh, how I wanted to be a Veronica. It sounded so exotic and grown-up. I dreamed of changing my name, owning a German Sheperd I would call Sheba, and wearing white high-top sneakers every day . . . all the things my parents wouldn't let me do.

It's a different day and age. A librarian named Veronica - who hasn't fantasized about that?

For sale: used Cadillac, red-hot!

The other morning, my mother calls me.

"Well, we've had some excitement around here lately," she begins.

I'm on my way to class.

My father, she says, is driving home from work when he smells a strange odor. He opens the car window, and realizes that the smell is coming from inside the car. Then, thick black smoke starts billowing out of the CD player. [and not, as my great-aunt noted, because of his poor taste in music]

Smoke is filling the car, so he pulls over into a grocery store parking lot, where he realizes that the CAR IS ON FIRE.

I stop halfway out of my car and sit back down inside. Class can wait.

He calls the fire department. A bunch of firemen show up and determine that the base of the fire is effectively under where the dashboard is, and that they can't just blast water under the hood to put it out.

So they crawl into the smoke-filled car and begin HACKING AWAY AT THE DASH WITH CROWBARS AND HATCHETS. Once the front of the passenger compartment is completely destroyed, they hose down the engine from inside the car and manage to put the fire out.

"And that's our news," my mother finishes. "How are you?"